The dew hadn’t yet lifted from the grass, the mist was slowly retreating across the riverbank, and the sun was already rolling up over the jagged edge of the woods.
Edward stood on the porch, soaking in the beauty of the early morning and breathing in the crisp air. Behind him, he heard the soft slap of bare feet. A woman in a nightgown, a shawl draped over her shoulders, stepped up beside him.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Edward sighed deeply. “You ought to go inside, you’ll catch a chill,” he said gently, adjusting the shawl that had slipped from her round, pale shoulder.
She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his.
“Don’t want to leave you,” Edward murmured, his voice thick with tenderness.
“Then don’t,” she murmured back, her voice as tempting as a siren’s song. *Stay—but then what?* The thought sobered him.
If only it were that simple, he’d have stayed ages ago. But twenty-three years with his wife weren’t so easily brushed aside, and then there were the kids… Sophie, practically grown, spent more nights at her fiancé’s place than at home—she’d be married soon. And little Tim was only fourteen, right in the thick of his difficult years.
A lorry driver could find work anywhere, but the pay here wouldn’t be half what he earned now. Right now, he could splash out, buy Diane fancy gifts, but what if his wages dropped? Would she still want him then? That was the question.
“Don’t start, Diane,” Edward said, shaking his head.
“Why not? The kids are grown—it’s time to think about yourself. You’ve said it yourself, you and your wife are just going through the motions.” Diane pulled away, hurt.
“Ah, if only I’d met you sooner…” Edward exhaled sharply. “Don’t be angry. I’ve got to go—I’m already late.” He moved to kiss her, but she turned her face away. “Diane, I’ve got a shipment waiting. I need to be home by tonight.”
“You always make promises. You come, stir everything up, then rush back to her. I’m sick of waiting. Michael’s been asking me to marry him for ages.”
“Then go ahead,” Edward shrugged.
He wanted to say more but bit his tongue. Slowly, he stepped off the porch, rounded the corner of the house, and headed through the garden toward the ring road where his lorry waited. He always parked there, not wanting to wake the village at dawn.
Climbing into the cab, he hesitated. Usually, Diane would walk him to the lorry and kiss him goodbye. Today, she hadn’t followed—must’ve really meant it this time. Edward settled in, slammed the door, and before starting the engine, dialed his wife’s number. He never liked calling her in front of Diane. A dull automated voice answered—the phone was switched off. No missed calls, either.
He pocketed his phone and revved the engine, listening to its steady growl. The lorry shuddered awake, lurching forward onto the uneven country road. Edward gave a quick honk and pressed the accelerator.
The woman on the porch shivered as the engine faded into the distance, then turned and went inside.
On the radio, George Michael crooned, *”Careless Whisper”*. Edward hummed along, thinking of the woman he’d left behind. But soon, his thoughts turned home. *What’s going on there? Can’t reach her for two days. When I get back, I’ll sort it out…*
Meanwhile, his wife, Eleanor, was waking up from anesthesia in a hospital bed—and everything came rushing back.
***
They’d been married over twenty years—twenty-four, to be exact. Edward was a long-haul driver, good money, solid family, big house, two kids. Sophie was grown, about to marry, already working as a hairdresser. Tim was fourteen, dreaming of joining the navy.
Then that call came.
At first, Eleanor thought it was a prank or wrong number.
“Hello, Eleanor. Waiting for your husband? He’s running late…” The voice was sticky-sweet, like syrup.
“What’s wrong?” Eleanor cut in, immediately fearing an accident. The roads were long, anything could happen—especially with valuable cargo.
“Oh, something’s wrong, all right. He’s with his mistress,” the voice purred.
“WHO IS THIS?” Eleanor nearly screamed into the phone.
“Just wait… and wait…” A woman’s laugh crackled before the line went dead.
Eleanor pulled the phone away, ending the call—but the laughter echoed in her ears. Panic set in. Her thoughts tangled, flashing between images of a wrecked lorry and another woman in her husband’s arms. *Who else would know his schedule? Only her.* How dare she call, laugh at her!
She dialed Edward’s number—then hung up. What if he was driving? What would she even say? She couldn’t distract him. When he got back, *then* they’d talk.
Trying to steady herself, she busied with chores—but everything slipped from her hands. That mocking laugh still rang in her ears.
Of course, neither Sophie nor Tim was home. Sophie was out with her boyfriend, and Tim had gone to a mate’s birthday party the night before.
She needed air. Eleanor grabbed her purse and stepped outside. She’d pop to the shop for mayo, onions, and beer—Edward liked cracking one open on weekends. She’d cook tomorrow, since he’d be home by dinner. *And if he doesn’t come back?* her inner voice nagged, but she shoved it down.
She decided to walk to the supermarket, calm her nerves. But it was a long way, so she cut through an alley—one side lined with garages, the other a concrete wall. Desolate, already growing dark, but it’d save time. She quickened her pace.
Suddenly, someone yanked her purse from behind. Stumbling, she almost fell. She spun around—just the back of a man sprinting away. *No way to catch him.* Still, she ran. Her purse had everything—money, cards, keys, her phone.
“STOP!” she shouted—but he vanished around the corner. She kept running, then—
Her heel caught a stone. Her ankle twisted. She crashed hard onto the pavement, hip and elbow throbbing. She tried to stand, but a sharp pain shot up her leg, straight to her skull. Tears welled. Looking down, she saw her ankle swelling, already purple.
Worse—no phone. No way to call for help. Panic pressed down. No one would hear her scream here. Maybe she could crawl? But if she did, scraped and bleeding, people might think she was drunk.
She slumped against a rusted garage door, afraid to move. Tears streaked her face, smudged by her dirty hands.
Then—headlights. A car rolled up, stopped. A man stepped out, unlocking a garage. She couldn’t see his face, but he might not spot her in the dark.
Summoning her voice, she screamed, “HELP!”
The man turned. She shouted again, coughing. He approached, stopping just short.
“Help me—someone stole my bag. I twisted my ankle. Call an ambulance, please!”
He glanced around, pulled out his phone—then put it away. *What now?* Her fingers groped for a rock, a stick—anything.
Instead, he crouched. “Ambulance’ll take ages. I’ll lift you—hold onto my neck.”
She nodded, still crying. He hooked an arm under her knees, the other around her waist, and—grunting—heaved her up. She clung to him as he carried her, stumbling, to his car.
At the car, he set her down to open the door. She balanced on one foot, leaning on the bonnet. He helped her inside, handing her wet wipes to clean her face.
“How’d you end up here?” he panted once behind the wheel.
“Took a shortcut. Someone snatched my purse. Thank you—I’d have been stuck all night.”
He passed her his phone. “Call your husband, family.”
“Husband’s on the road. Can’t.” She dialed Sophie.
“Mum?” Music blared in the background.
“Sophie, I think I’ve broken my ankle. I’m going to hospital,” Eleanor shouted.
“What? Can’t hear you!”
“MY ANKLE! HOSPITAL!”
“Call you back!” The line died.
Her hands shook as she tried Tim’s number—no answer.
“This is ridiculous!” she snapped.
“No luck?” the man sympathized.
She shook her head, sniffling.
“Almost there. I’m John. And you?”
“Eleanor.” Then, suddenly, she told him everything.
***
Eleanor opened her eyes. Sunlight filled the hospital room. Her head ached; her leg was numb until she shifted—then pain jolted through.
“Awake?”She looked up at John standing by her bedside, holding a simple bouquet of daisies, and for the first time in years, she felt a flicker of something like hope.
